Micaela armed herself with a fireplace poker and made doubly sure that all the doors were locked.
She stared at the phone, wishing that she knew the Slovene number for emergency services. Just then the phone rang and she backed away from it as if it were a coiled viper.
One of the doorknobs squeaked.
She inhaled deeply, unlocked the door, gripped the poker like an ax and raised it high above her head.
The knob turned and the door opened.
At that instant Micaela began her downward swing but at the last second was just able to check it when she glimpsed a nun’s black sleeve.
Zazo started to jog. The traffic was bad at this time of day and he thought he’d do better on foot than taking the bus. He started to form a plan. He’d get his car, head north and drive like hell to Slovenia. With luck he’d get to Bled before midnight. He’d demand to speak with Krek. They’d probably call the authorities and have him arrested but what else could he do? He was a policeman and this was his only lead.
His mobile phone chirped.
He plucked it from his pocket as he ran but came to a dead halt at the sight of the number.
929295.
‘Yes?’ he answered cautiously, panting from his running.
The whispering voice he heard was distraught and frantic. ‘Zazo! It’s me!’
His mind disconnected from his body at the sound of Elisabetta’s voice. It seemed to take him an eternity to answer.
‘My God! You’re in Slovenia! You’re with Krek!’
‘How did you know?’
‘Forget about that. Are you okay?’
‘Yes! No! He’s dead. I killed him, Zazo!’
‘Jesus! Is Micaela okay?’
‘Yes, we’re together. I’m sorry I’ve got to whisper but we’re hiding. Krek’s men are everywhere but they don’t know he’s dead.’
‘Okay, listen. If you’re safe where you are, stay put. I’ll call the Slovenian State Police.’
‘No, Zazo. I’ll call them. You’ve got to go to the Vatican.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a bomb in the Sistine Chapel, I’m sure of it. You’ve got to go there! You’ve got to stop the Conclave!’
Zazo was on Via Garibaldi. Cars and motorbikes were whizzing past. He stared at his phone for a moment to gather his wits and then speed-dialed Lorenzo. He got his voicemail.
He tried Inspector Loreti.
Voicemail there, too.
He was three or four kilometers away from the Vatican – too far to run.
On impulse Zazo stepped into the street, stretched his arms wide and blocked an approaching red Honda 1000. The rider almost lost control and stopped a half-meter before hitting him. The young man ripped off his helmet and began swearing.
Zazo pulled his badge from his back pocket. ‘Police! This is an emergency! I’m taking your bike!’
‘The hell you are!’ the man shouted.
Zazo instinctively reached for his gun but it was back at his flat. Instead he pointed a finger and menaced the Honda’s rider: ‘Do you want to go to jail for obstructing a police operation?’ When the fellow didn’t respond, Zazo pushed him hard with both hands. The bike tipped over and the young man fell to the ground. Zazo righted the Honda, mounted it and put it in gear. All the rider could do was scream at him and toss his helmet uselessly at his back.
Hackel locked the door of his flat and opened one of his west-facing windows to let in some fresh air. His building was too low for him to see the Sistine Chapel but the spire atop St Peter’s was visible against a hazy late- afternoon sky.
He turned on his television. The crowd in the Square was placid, expectant.
He went into the bedroom and slid open the top drawer of his dresser. Behind the folded stacks of black socks was a black and green box, the size of three packs of playing cards.
Hackel sat on his bed and tested the on-off switch of the Combifire detonator. He knew the batteries were fresh but just in case he was wrong he had spares.
A small bulb glowed green.
He put the detonator down and sighed.
He was troubled by the call that had been made to Krek’s residence by someone claiming to be him. The number texted to him was from a Rome exchange. Someone was onto him. Who? How? The notion of riding out the investigation was now absurd. He’d have to disappear immediately.
Hackel went to his closet and retrieved an empty suitcase.
Zazo gunned the Honda like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic, passing through gaps between cars so tight that he scraped their doors with the handlebars. The combination of rush-hour traffic and the extraordinary congestion around Vatican City made for total gridlock.
On the Via Domenico Silveri the traffic came to a complete stop. He looked up at the Dome of the Basilica, turned the handlebars and jumped the motorbike over the curb and onto the sidewalk.
Pedestrians yelled at him and he yelled back, making it clear that he wasn’t going to stop. Dodging and zigzagging, he made it to the Via della Stazione Vaticana where the sidewalks too became impassable.
Zazo ditched the Honda and ran.
He fought through the crowds and arrived, chest heaving, at the Petriano Entrance on the south side of St Peter’s where three of his own men were guarding a checkpoint.
He came barreling up to them. From the look in their eyes he could tell that they knew he was on suspension.
A corporal said, ‘Major Celestino, I thought—’
Zazo interrupted him. ‘It’s okay. I’ve been reinstated. Inspector Loreti called me back in.’
They saluted and let him pass.
It was pointless trying to cut through the Square. He’d never seen it so packed. Instead he ran through the non-public zones by the Domus Sanctae Marthae and the back of the Basilica to a rear entrance of the Palace off the Square of the Furnace.
The smokeless Conclave chimney was overhead.
He made it into the Sala Regia unchallenged. Even the Swiss Guards saluted him curiously.
The hall was bright and ornate, filled with archbishops, bishops, monsignors and lay officials awaiting the conclusion of the first day.
Lorenzo was at the Palace end of the hall with Major Capozzoli. He spotted Zazo, called out in surprise and intercepted him.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked. Zazo looked at him with wild eyes. ‘I need your gun.’
‘Are you crazy? What’s the matter with you?’
‘There’s a bomb!’ An archbishop overheard him and began whispering to one of his colleagues.
Lorenzo eyed him with alarm. ‘Be quiet! How do you know?’
‘Elisabetta found out! I think Hackel placed it.’
‘Why hasn’t Loreti or anyone notified me?’
‘No one knows yet. For God’s sake, Lorenzo! Give me your gun. Cappy, clear the hall. Lorenzo, find Hackel and stop him before it’s too late!’
Hackel zipped his suitcase and put it by the front door.
There was a drawer in his study desk that contained an accordion folder of private papers and false passports. He took it out and stuffed it into an outer flap of his case.
He’d be traveling. He wanted to be as anonymous as a man of his size could be. His black suit wouldn’t do. He took it off and folded it carefully, peeked at the television, then looked in his closet for something more comfortable. He’d be taking his car as far as a taxi stand, getting a ride to a rental-car facility, then calling Krek. An
